


Eavesdropping & Ephiphanies

by reliquiaen



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-17
Updated: 2015-08-17
Packaged: 2018-04-15 03:32:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,776
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4591377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reliquiaen/pseuds/reliquiaen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trashy romance novels are not real life. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Eavesdropping & Ephiphanies

It was the exact same tone Jemma always used. The one she pulled out when she was getting excited about neurons or string theory or whatever. Only, while Jemma spoke with hushed excitement, imparting the secrets of the universe like it was a conspiracy, _these_ guys were babbling obnoxiously.

“It just doesn’t _happen_ like that in reality,” Philosopher Number One was saying dramatically. Skye was under the forced impression that he was basing his thesis on whatever trashy novel he was waving around in one hand. He flipped through the pages, eyes scanning the words, face livid.

His friend smirked. “I’m sure the movie industry would beg to differ,” he said sardonically.

Philosophy snorted. “Sure, maybe they would.” He slapped the book onto the table with an overly loud _slrrrrck_ sound. “But that doesn’t mean they’re right. I mean, come on. It’s just bullshit designed to make people believe in fairy tales.”

“That stuff sells,” replied his realist of a friend with a shrug. “You can’t deny it.”

“I suppose not,” Philosophy huffed. “But really…” he flicked the book to a page and began reading quickly. It took him a few pages, but eventually he found something to his liking. “‘His eyes were absorbent, devouring her attention and soul until there was nothing floating around in her head but the awareness of how fast her heart was pounding. There was static in her veins, surging warmth from where his fingertips touched her arm softly. It was hard to deny there was something mesmerising about a person who knew exactly how she drank her coffee and what time to call her for a running commentary on that show she loved. And in the moment, in _this_ moment, when they stood so close that the coiling heat in her lower abdomen was starting to become awkward, she wondered why she even bothered to deny her attraction to him.’”

Philosophy snapped the book closed and lifted an eyebrow at Realism. His friend simply smirked some more. “No, I get it,” Realism said calmly. “It’s garbage. No one really thinks that about people, it’s just a fantasy. But you can’t expect it to _stop_ because folks read it.” He gestured sharply at Philosophy. “ _You’re_ reading it. My point is making itself.”

“This is my girlfriend’s,” Philosophy justified, rolling his eyes. “She told me I should be a little more like the guy in this story so I read a bit to see what she was on about. It’s all nonsense though. I mean, the guy doesn’t even have to _try_ and this chick falls over for him. There’s stuff in here about how romantic their first date was, but after that they literally fall into these boring domestic habits because they think it can’t work between them and they’re better off as roommates.”

“So he’s not getting any at this point in the story?” Realism asked as if the notion was horrifying. As if he thought these books were written – not only as a way for women to escape into a world where men _cared_ about them – but because they needed help getting women. What a backwards notion.

“No!” Philosophy cried. “There’s all this blatant underlying sexual tension, but neither of them has done anything about it. Like… the book will probably build up to the point where one of them sleeps with someone else and it’ll be a scandal. But the point is: no one thinks this way.”

Skye wanted to tell him he was wrong. She wanted to tell him that it really _is_ nice when someone just knows exactly how you like your coffee; that finding take-away Chinese food in the microwave after an agonisingly long day is so… so… _perfect_. And she wanted to tell him that the person who _does_ those things deserves the title of Soul Mate.

She wanted to. But she didn’t. Because no sooner had the thought crossed her mind than she realised how much first-hand experience she’d had with that.

Lurching to her feet, eyes wider than she thought was natural, Skye staggered free of the tangle of chair and table legs. Philosophy and Realism swivelled to look at her as the chair rocked backwards and clattered to the floor. Realism smirked and ran a hand through his hair (he didn’t wear the expression well and there was far too much gel in his locks) and Philosophy smiled quietly (obviously the nicer – if that’s what it could be called – of the two). She snatched her things together and dropped a tip on the table before heading for the door, shrugging into her coat.

“You alright?” Realism asked. “In a hurry, huh?”

She paused, thinking. After arguing internally for a moment, Skye turned back to them. “Yes,” she replied as nauseously politely as she could manage. “Because for all your cynicism and indignant disbelief in happiness on a basic level, you happened to be right about one thing. The person in that book romancing the chick did it accidentally and that level of inadvertent perfection in a person is _exactly_ what a woman dreams of. The fact that most men are like you – incapable of being any kind of romantic; even accidentally – just means that the authors of those books will continue to make billions. _I,_ on the other hand, happen to know someone _just like that_ and so off I go to prove you dimwits wrong.”

With that she left, smiling – satisfied – with the dumbfounded expressions they were wearing as the door clicked behind her. It took her an impatient fifteen minutes and forty-six seconds to get back to her apartment. Her knee wouldn’t stop bouncing, fingers refused to cease their drumming on the wheel and – when she finally got to her door – the key took an awful lot of convincing to slide into the lock.

“I bought Italian,” came the greeting from the living room. “It’s in the microwave. I didn’t know when you’d be home so I ate without you. Sorry.”

Skye ignored the delightful smell wafting from the kitchen and headed straight for the other room, dropping her bags haphazardly on the floor as she went. Curled up on the couch with her nose in a book and her feet tucked beneath her, was Skye’s roommate; the science-minded, somewhat oblivious and surprisingly sarcastic Jemma. The other woman looked up when she heard Skye enter and her face split across the middle into a brilliant smile. It made Skye’s heart forget to breathe (something the idiots in the café would’ve laughed to hear of).

“Hey, how was your day?” Jemma enquired, brightly. She always did, without fail. And then she’d listen as Skye regaled her with the unbridled stupidity of students these days.

“Excellent,” was her response. She stopped in front of Jemma’s chair and stared at her for a little bit. She caught herself doing that a lot actually, but until _right now_ she’d never realised _why_ she was doing it.

Jemma stood, dropping her book behind her and made to head for the kitchen. “Why don’t you get the food and tell me how they–”

She didn’t finish because Skye grabbed her arm and pulled her close, kissing her the instant it was possible. Philosophy and Realism had mentioned the clichés used in romance novels and how moronic they seemed. But no matter how hard she tried, Skye couldn’t think of anything that _wasn’t_ clichéd to describe how _awesome_ it felt to have Jemma’s arms wrapped around her. The way her lips moved, parted, pressed closer, the way her fingers tangled in Skye’s hair, keeping her so near it might’ve broken the laws of physics she loved so much. It was the best decision she’d ever made. Period.

At length ( _length_ ) Jemma leaned away, sucked in a deep breath and stared at her with hooded eyes that didn’t quite conceal the dark of her dilated pupils. The slow smile on her mouth, the way her fingers traced delectably warm patterns on the back of Skye’s neck, the disarray of her normally perfect hair made coils of warm twist and knot in her stomach. More clichés that didn’t do this moment justice.

“What was that for?” Jemma whispered, running her nose along Skye’s, her words tingling against her lips, ghosting, teasing, _promising_.

“I overheard some pinheads in the café today,” Skye replied, unable to stop staring at Jemma’s lips and the taunting way they curled upwards. “They were discussing romances novels and how unrealistically they portray love and stuff. One of them read some of his novel and got me thinking… that maybe…”

Jemma inclined her neck, mouth skittering across Skye’s, eliciting a sigh. Her hands clenched in Skye’s collar and she mumbled against her cheek. “Got you wondering what?”

“That maybe there is such a thing as soul mates,” she exhaled, hating how silly she sounded – how sappy. “It would be someone who knows what to order me at a restaurant if I’m running late, someone who smiles when they see me, someone who can read my mind, someone who keeps my dinner warm when I have a long day, someone who knows exactly how to cheer me up when I’m down.” She blinked, resting her forehead on Jemma’s. “Someone exactly like you.”

“Aw,” Jemma sang. “You’re a closet romantic.”

“Shut up.”

“So what’s the short answer?” Jemma prompted. She _obviously_ already knew the answer. But (and she would never admit it on pain of death) Skye had read a romance novel or two (just for kicks, of course) and she knew what came next. She knew why.

But she’d never imagined in her wildest dreams that she might _enjoy_ saying it.

“God help me,” she grumbled. “But I’m hopelessly in love with you and it took a pair of losers for me to realise it.”

“Yay me!” Jemma pulled her in again and kissed her so thoroughly Skye’s head was spinning. This was so much better than coffee.

“Wait,” Skye said, reluctantly leaning away. “Isn’t there some sort of response I should get from you before I throw caution to the wind? I’m not a floozy, you know.”

Jemma laughed, which didn’t help settle Skye’s still whirling mind. Jemma’s fingers wound into her lapels, drawing her back down so she could whisper the words in a way that could _only_ be described as flirtatious and Lord knows _that_ didn’t help either. “I’ve been in love with you since we were eighteen,” Jemma said, breath tickling Skye’s throat. “I just didn’t know it.”

“Oh, good. Let me just dispose of my caution and we’ll be set.”

Skye didn’t get to eat her dinner.

She didn’t care anyway.


End file.
